It's a new year and all. Cheers. Bring out the whistles and the bells. The glass of champaign. The lips waiting for a kiss. That expectation that the final 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 should be the most exciting moment ever.

But nothing happens when the ball drops. I yawn. Look around. Feel a hand tighten around my waist, lift my plastic glass of Merlot. "Cheers," I say, complete with eye contact and short nod. European style, or so the Europeans told me.

I enjoy holidays, but I feel like each one should somehow change me. Should leave some sort of indelible mark. Maybe I'll start a new tradition -- get a piercing or tatoo at every holiday. But eventually I'd run out of skin. With all the hoo-ha of a holiday, it seems something should last longer and more permanently than a memory. Right?

I'm home. Have been home for a little over a week now. The jet lag is gone. I can think in complete sentences again. My luggage finally arrived. My boyfriend is here for another week and a half. I got the Pumas I've been looking for for two years and a spiffy pair of jeans. Also, some money toward a laptop.

Ah, above mentioned boyfriend is now showered and ready to go to find Neverland.